


call it a favour

by lornemalvoofficial (VerboseSniper)



Series: rivers of denial [lornester vignettes] [2]
Category: Fargo (2014)
Genre: Gunplay, M/M, One-Sided Attraction, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-02
Updated: 2016-03-02
Packaged: 2018-05-24 09:59:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6149881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VerboseSniper/pseuds/lornemalvoofficial
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Everything's a game to Lorne. He could leave him wanting more if that'll get him the most amusing reaction, and Lester will fall on his ass to prove him right; he always does."</p><p>Their first time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	call it a favour

**Author's Note:**

> I couldn’t write this without it getting... I guess 'unpalatable' is the word. My first draft was even worse. So obligatory warning: there are so many indications of abuse from both Lorne and Lester, _from the very start_. I can promise nothing goes anywhere gross, e.g. anywhere either partner doesn’t want, but it’s equally true this sets a precedent for their relationship and how they’re likely to navigate other intimate situations, where that might not always be the case. Those undertones are meant to be jarring, especially the fact they're only briefly questioned by either partner, so please read with discretion. 
> 
> Also, standard misogyny trigger warning for Lester's POV. It's only brief allusions, but it's hard to imagine writing him without it, and I'd rather not brush something like that over like it doesn't exist.
> 
> This is maybe the sixth sex scene I’ve ever written. It is the first I’m willing to publish. I have neither a dick nor any sexual experience. pls be gentle (read: I probably should've gotten a beta but I'm lazy)

It’s a gasp that gives him away.

To stop himself from moaning he’s been biting down until his lip bleeds. Regulating his breathing through the gaps in his teeth. He's lying beside a man who seems to become stone every night. But then the covers are pulled away, the light comes on, and Lester’s all exposed with his hand down his boxers.

“It was--” he starts, eyes wide. “I-I-I can explain. I can do better than that. I can--”

“Get your hand out of there. You can explain after.”

He does.

“It’s... it’s real cold in the bathroom. Plus, I mean, I didn’t wanna get out of bed and disturb you. But...”

“But what?”

And he can’t answer. His lips thin out to a line. Those eyes penetrating every part of him, looking at his left hand with distaste. Then he reaches out, puts the same hand on Lorne’s thigh.

Lorne looks down at his own leg, then at Lester’s expression. His 'partner’s stare is full of want. And it could just be the cold but his face is actually _quivering_.

"I get it,” he mutters. Lester tries to sit up but Lorne stops him, pushes his shoulders back down to the mattress. “No, you’re fine just there. Close your eyes.”

“What? Why?” Lester looks up at him open-mouthed, eyes seeming to lock down on their subject, challenge, defy.

“I’m not gonna say it twice.” Whatever his power over anyone else it’s lost on Lorne. _His_ eyes look upon him like he’s shit on his shoe. “Or you can jerk off into the shower, go to sleep, and we’ll pretend this didn’t happen. You can do that. I don’t think that’s what you set out to do.”

Working with Lorne, you learn that everything's an ultimatum.

Lester blinking, his shoulders tensing, he swallows, his brow creasing in self-frustration. His cheeks all red, less the flush of passion, more the burn after you’ve been slapped.

“It’s in your hands, Lester.”

And it takes him a few seconds but the truth is he’s already made up his mind. He takes the dark and he steps off the cliff.

First he feels a weight on him, his captor’s lap against his own. His eyes flutter open for maybe half a second; when they do they see Lorne looking at him in the clinical way you'd view a science experiment. He’d love to know how you’d call this scientific.

Two fingers gently push his eyelids back down. “Soon,” he says.

A palm cups his chin, his thumb tracing the bow of his upper lip. Crossing the stubble. Then his mouth’s being craned open.

Never been more aware of the width of his throat. He’s measuring out the walls of his mouth with his tongue, trying ever so hard not to let it show. And he’s got him so fucked up, all he’s wondering is _will this be good enough_.

Then he tastes steel. A tube shoved into his mouth going so deep he has to remember how to breathe.

He tries to say _please don’t do this_ , but it comes out with half the consonants missing. His chin’s being lifted, his jaw tensing at the contact. He’s being observed. The sick fuck wants to see how he's taking it.

He bites down on the gun. His face heats up and his eyes have never been shut tighter because he doesn’t want to see it, doesn’t want to know what it looks like. How his final moments of consciousness will look when a bullet tears through his brain. Is the darkness red or blue? Does it come in one wave, or in tiny blind spots?

“You know you can open your eyes now, right?”

And because it’s _his_ voice, and it sounds _just_ enough like a suggestion, his eyes flick open. But Lester doesn’t look at him, doesn’t dare.

The silencer’s deepest of all, the most uncomfortable -- Lorne would correct him at this point, say it’s a suppressor. Lester can't think about it for more than a second or he'll gag. Lorne cocks the gun and he feels it through his whole body.

And yet he’s still alive. The weight on his lap gets heavier. Two legs manoeuvring round to squeeze his hips. They’re crotch to crotch now.

His tongue is stuck to the floor of his mouth. Doesn’t feel like he’s actually drawn breath since the gun slid in. He can still breathe, though, short panicked intakes through his nose. In, out. In, out. His mouth’s full of spit but swallowing never felt so awkward. Like it matters whether you can swallow when you’re a dead man.

 _If_ you’re a dead man.

“Lester, I don't know what you expected from this.”

If he’s about to die, well, his erection hasn’t.

The psych class he took in high school, the textbook they used, there was this whole chapter on Stockholm syndrome. How you become attached to your captor if you’re cut off from the rest of the world. Except he can’t even blame it on that. Because this started a year ago.

A year ago. Lying diagonal in a double bed to himself not unlike the one they’re in now. Just as aged and nasty. And he’s face down with his dick in his hand muffling his cries with the pillow. And what got him there wasn’t the widow. Not the wife. Not even the thought of Pearl lying there with not a beat left in her heart, _finally_ finally the instrument of _his_ whim.

No, it was _him_. Telling him to get on his knees and suck. Those times he lifted his face from the pillow and saw the wetness left behind like just for a second he convinced himself he was in his mouth. The gun between his lips, well, maybe he’s doing the same. Pretending it’s not something so harsh. Ammo he can greedily swallow.

At the edge of his vision is a change in Lorne’s expression, his cheeks widening from impartiality to amusement. It’s the drool at the corners of his lips.

He forces his tongue up, forces it to lap around the ice cold steel between his teeth. He’s sucking on the barrel of this gun because Lorne’s stalling. Because this was a game all along and this is how it ends.

He can imagine Sam’s ghost watching him right now. He can imagine Chazz finding out how the depths just keep on getting darker, that he saw all this coming. That his sad useless older brother has a hard-on for a killer and now he’s deepthroating his gun. That maybe, all along, this has been the root of everything.

All these thoughts rushing down to meet his dick. That’s not the only tension he feels. His arms feel pinned down by Lorne’s stare, for all he wants to finish himself off, unsure of whether anything's ahead of this. The thing to remember is everything's a game to Lorne. He could leave him wanting more if that'll get him the most amusing reaction, and Lester will fall on his ass to prove him right; he always does. At least half of him has got to be pink right now, his eyes on the dry knuckles wrapped round the trigger. But finally, _finally_ does he look up at Lorne’s face.

Lorne smiles.

The gun’s such a fixture Lester almost misses it when it’s gone. Lorne puts it aside, flicks it out of their reach onto the side table. Beneath the bedside lamp he can see it’s wet with saliva, scuffed by his teeth.

“You know, I’d shoot you if you did that to my dick,” Lorne says. He pulls the covers over Lester’s waist. Then he asks abruptly if he’s clean.

“Where d’you think I’d get anything?” He’s been monogamous this whole time, two relationships in his whole life. That’s a lie but it’s what he’s thinking. All those times at the bar, a new woman every time, those don’t _count_ , do they? Every married man fools around at least once. Before whatever you call _this_. “Should I... should I be asking the same?”

“No,” he replies, shaking his head.

Lester hasn’t noticed till now but his partner isn’t hard. Doesn’t occur to him why he only felt _one_ bulge until Lorne slips beneath the covers. Then his own boxers are being pulled down, hot breath on his stomach, creeping lower.

Then his tongue exploring the head of his dick.

Lester _gasps_.

He’s dragging it real slow. It’s rougher than you’d expect, like a canine’s. It’s the kind of feeling you could never possibly simulate yourself. He’s curling into himself, biting his lip again, pretending he can hide how this feels. Lester goes south to fondle his balls, to own at least one part of this himself. It’s futile. Lorne’s responding to every tremor, every shuddering breath, every whine; he’s got a fist around the base angling his cock just right so he can force those noises out of him all over again. It’s practiced; that's what it is. Lester is not the first to receive this and he will not be the last. It’s infuriating, the way he staggers the pacing, like having him squirming under his tongue isn’t enough. Lorne looks up and sees the hunger in Lester’s eyes, bliss morphing into sweating desperation.

Lester waits for the moment Lorne’s lips come to meet his head. Taking his hand off his balls he slowly pushes his head down till he's taking him whole, the same way Lorne, no, 'Lorne' always made him. He’s not huge. He’ll be fine. And if he’s not fine, well, he’d sure like to read how they write _that_ epitaph.

He doesn't hold him there like 'Lorne' did, too chickenshit he might bite his dick off. But Lorne stays where he is of his own accord. He doesn’t choke, much as Lester would  _love_ that, but he’s working noticeably faster, his cheeks hollowing till Lester’s whole dick is moist and insulated. Lester's petting the nape of Lorne's neck, like he even needs encouragement. 

“Shit--”

He doesn't expect the teeth scouring his shaft, _just_ enough to push him over the edge. Snatching Lorne's hair he comes down his throat making the cry of a dying animal. There are rooms either side of theirs but he's long past caring what this must sound like.

The release seems to go on and on and on. He’s lying there with his arms out, his head lazily rocking side to side, trying to get himself to move. But when he tries it feels like he’ll disintegrate into nothing.

When he eventually sits up, pulls up his boxers, there's a vacant space between open legs. From the bathroom comes the tap running, then Lorne gargling and spitting into the sink. That's when he returns to his side.

“You didn’t want me to...” reciprocate?

“Not tonight.” Lorne lies beside him, his arm braced to stroke the other man’s hair. “Tomorrow we’ll figure out whether we forget about this. Until then this is whatever you want. Call it a favour.”

They lie like this for a few minutes, silent. Lester opens his mouth a few times but nothing comes out. Then Lorne turns over to switch the lamp off.

“Wait. Look at me,” Lester says, putting a hand on his shoulder. And Lorne takes his damn time but he looks back at him, watches the most pitiful eyes he’s ever seen. He says, “Thank you.”

Lorne returns a smirk, but that’s not actually what Lester wants to say. He wants to point out the cum in his goatee but then the light goes out.

It can wait.

**Author's Note:**

> On a scale of Morrissey to Chuck Tingle, how much did you enjoy this fic? Let me know in the comments. I'm not looking for super in-depth nitpicking, cause this is purely shit I write for fun, but if you have constructive criticism I'd like to hear it! Reviews help fuel the creation of more disgusting trash. You can also send me an ask at [lornemalvoofficial](http://lornemalvoofficial.tumblr.com/) if you have a specific prompt in mind. I might be late to the party but I wanna believe this trash ship's still got a crew. xoxo


End file.
